Fear of Commitment…

Pondering my future as I sifted through ads online I re-thought a question that was posed when a friend asked me about how my moving plans are going.  “Going…” was all I could muster by way of response, but my monotone airless voice was completely transparent.  “You don’t sound thrilled.”

It’s not just the gross left over apartments from the fall “catalog” of Craigslist listings or the idea of packing up all my stuff and moving out of a four-story walk up that makes me hem and haw through the process of getting things started.  Sure, I’m excited about having a kitchen instead of the 6 inches of counter space and partially working stove I share with my room mates.  I’m very much looking forward to a living room that isn’t decked out in MTV’s latest line-up.  But something about the whole idea just makes me feel frozen.  I realize that it’s because I’m afraid of committing….to a city.

There’s something so temporary about room mates, even if it’s just an illusion. But once you take the time to make a space your own, you tend to want to stay a while.  My holding cell (aka my Houston apartment) never saw the light of proper decoration because I didn’t even want to pretend that I would consider staying there after D.  So it remained empty and in the end it took all of 25 minutes for two burly men to move it into my truck (aka my white horse).

I know that once I choose a place and a new bed and start to paint my walls that I’ll be setting up shop here in New York for the long haul.  I’ll be admitting openly that I live here, and no longer would I be nomadic.  I have to wonder if I’d feel trapped.  Or if I’d finally feel at home.  Throat, meet lump.


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